


Crisis in the Old Kingdom

by TonyJC



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonyJC/pseuds/TonyJC
Summary: A rebellion, a farce, a distraction. Needless, unjustified, and unwanted. But the Nord rebellion in the province of Skyrim has left the Empire vulnerable, and some say the ever encroaching Aldmeri Dominion is to blame, and if the Empire is to survive, then it must be smothered. Emperor Titus Mede The Second has sent General Tacitus Tullius to the province in an effort to secure the loyal Holds, establish stability in the autonomous realm, and bring Imperial Law to bear on the Jarl of Windhelm. Arvas Vitellius, part of the Imperial Guard, is to guard the general with his life, but an unknown prophesy would change his fate and destiny.For in the ancient valleys and forests of the Old Kingdom, forces beyond Men and Mer have begun to awoke, and the First Born of Akatosh will seek to dominate once again.





	Crisis in the Old Kingdom

His breath misted in the frigid air of the night. The pines around him were quiet, sleeping, but for them a battle awaited. He could hear the snorting of the other horses beside him, but the armored men atop them did not utter a word. They all waited, for the trumpet and the blood soon to follow, and so they were frozen in place.

 

They stood on the crest a forested hill near the Pale Pass, and down below their quarry slept. They had hastily set up camp after traveling through the mountain pass, and their leader surely had in mind to continue at dawn. No stakes, ditches, and palisades were built, and their sentries were now feasting in the afterlife they called Sovngarde. It was time, and yet they waited.

 

Arvas Vitellius snorted heavily, the swirling mist escaping the narrow passages of his helmet. Strangely enough, the cold did not bother him. For sure, underneath his steel plates he wore mail and a padded jacket, but he had lived in the warm reaches of the south for most of his life. Some would say that Nords were cold-blooded, and could withstand a blizzard naked as they day they were born. However, he could not say the same for the men beside him. Some shivered, while others pulled their red cloaks about them and tried to find some warmth in them.

 

_ The men from Helgen are taking their sweet time.  _ Arvas thought. His hold on the reins of his horse tightened, and he rolled his shoulders to remove their stiffness. He was getting restless, and it once again crossed his mind that he longed the song of clashing steel. It was an uncomfortable thought, one that plagued him ever since he joined the Imperial Guard in service to the Imperial court and the Elder Council. But the one that he would admit to was the fact that he yearned the days of command. As a Centurion, he had commanded eighty soldiers and twenty of their assistants. As an Imperial Guard, however, he commanded none, and he only reported to their captain.

 

Soon enough, he heard distant hoofbeats approaching, but he could not clearly see who it was. However, as soon as the horseman reached their back, Arvas knew it was time. The man would be likely to be speaking with their general and telling him that they were now in position. His muscles coiled, and he both felt and heard his heartbeat beating inside his chest. He shifted in his saddle and grabbed his reins with his left hand while his right tightened on his lance. 

 

And then, at last, the general’s trumpet was blown, and the men kicked their horses to gallop. To his left, the Imperial Guard surged forward, and Arvas soon followed when the man next to him moved, creating a spearhead. The sound of hooves thumping on the dirt and the pine needles of the woods flooded his ears in the next moments, with times having to dodge trees and keeping up with the formation.

 

The tree trunks disappeared before he knew it, and they had galloped past the base of the hill. Further on ahead, the rebel camp stood at the center of the clearing. Torches were being lit, and he could see shadows moving in the camp. More than a hundred rebels, the scouts estimated, against their hundred and twelve horsemen, including the general and his guard. The rebels would rue the day they decided to take up arms against the Empire. 

 

They gave a warcry, one that would thunder throughout the whole clearing and take on the rebels’ attention. Their footmen immediately began to form a shield wall, one that would crush the meagre twelve horsemen. As the horses closed the distance to the wall of colored round shields and spears, the trumpet sounded once again, and at once the twelve horsemen strong spearhead turned to their left, north. This close, Arvas could hear the Nords shout insults and unpleasantries at them, while a thrown axe fell short of their formation.

 

He hated this. No one likes being bait, but he would get his chance soon. As they rounded the camp, the spearhead of the northern group came silent as they charged the camp. Elsewhere, the east and southern approaches of the camp would be facing the rest of the horsemen, attacking them at their backs. No earthworks or stakes were impeding them, and thus they faced no resistance when they entered the camp.

 

Once they gained some distance, the trumpet sounded once again and they turned south, following the northern cavalry as they smashed through the camp. Shouts and the clashing of steel and iron filled the air when they passed the boundaries, and he lowered his lance. Their formation had broken up and he was now following one of Helgen’s horsemen as they charged through the maze of tents.

 

A tall and bulky Nord wielding two axes came running through an aisle, charging at them. Arvas needed to only dip his lance, direct it, and let momentum do the rest, and the rebel’s unprotected chest was pierced like clay. He immediately heard a crack, and the shaft of his lance splintered as his charger thundered on ahead without a care in the world.

 

He threw away the splintered shaft, and his sword rasped as he removed it from his scabbard. Seeing the danger before the horseman in front of him could see it, Arvas watched too late as a spear pierced the man’s side. The dead man’s horse stopped, reared and stood on its hind legs, letting the corpse fall to the ground and breaking his charge. That’s when the spearman came at him next, and struck with his spear. 

 

His buckler caught it, the spearhead sliding and loudly scraping the thin metal plating of the small round shield. Immediately he grabbed and clutched the shaft of the spear, locking it with his armpit. With a yank, he brought the man forward, and with a downward thrust of his sword, sunk half of it on the base of his neck. He stared at the wide-eyed man, gasping as blood flooded his neck and chest, before he wrenched the sword out to release his limp body.

 

Breathing deeply, Arvas began to survey his surroundings, seeing thickly furred horses run amok from the camp’s broken horseline, trampling tents and bodies alike. A fire had broken out near the south, even though none of them had carried torches. But above all else, men were screaming and dying, with groups of horsemen keeping formation as they routed the rebels. Arvas spurred his horse onwards, looking for signs of any living Nord.

 

That’s when a horn was sounded, deeper into the camp. It was distinct from that of the general’s trumpet, but the sound was all too familiar. It was their captain’s horn.  _ Regroup. _

 

Arvas turned his horse towards it, and galloped, coming closer and once again returning to the rest of the guard. The rebels were routed, some being run down while they tried to flee while others threw down their arms and surrendered.  _ So much for wanting to die gloriously. _ Thought Arvas with distaste. Most men break when they realize that their cause was lost, and the Nords seemed to not be an exception.

 

He approached a group of men standing near felled and trampled tents. An armored man was on his knees, and beside him were Imperial guardsmen in their steel plates and red cloaks, holding the man’s arms and shoulders in place. Another guardsman, their captain, held a horn in one hand, and a sword in the other. He was helmless as he stared at a body that had been draped in a cloak, a darker shade of red staining the crimson fabric.

 

Arvas dismounted, his feet muffled by the fur and canvas that carpeted the ground. When he approached, his captain barked an order. “Tear out his damned cloak and gag him.”

 

He nodded, mumbling a “Yes, sir.” as he strode to the unconscious Jarl. The man was fair of hair, with bloody locks falling to his face and obscuring his features. His armor was made of scales and augmented by a breastplate, stained by blood, dented by blows and scraped by sword strokes. And yet he was still the most dangerous man in the camp. Arvas quickly rounded the men, towards the Jarl’s back.

 

As he knelt and tore at the azure velvet, multiple hoofbeats signalled the arrival of the general and the rest of his Imperial entourage. When Arvas stood, he gazed at the general as he arrived, on top of an armored horse, flanked by two guards and yet with blood on his drawn sword. His armor was black in the night, the patterns of the golden motifs of his armor standing out as they shined by a nearby blazing brazier. Arvas quickly returned, and set to work on stuffing and tying the Jarl’s mouth when the general spoke.

 

“Tell the cavalry to round up any who surrendered. They will share the Jarl’s fate.” General Tacitus Tullius said.

 

“As you command.” Captain Aurelius answered, the sound of a sheathing sword appearing before he spoke next. “Vitellius, with me.”

 

After Arvas had finished tying the gag and secured it, he stood, nodding to his captain. They departed the general and his prize, mounting their horses to trot away. Arvas glimpsed the carpeted corpse one again, before trailing his captain.  _ The rebels won’t be the only new arrivals in Sovngarde. _

 

“Vitellius, I will have to put you in charge of the prisoners.” His captain spoke ahead of him. Arvas raised an eyebrow.

 

“Sir?” Arvas asked, confused. “Pardon me for asking, but wouldn’t that be a job for the horsemen from Helgen?”

 

“I need to make sure none of them suddenly sympathize with the rebels and set them free.” he said, taking off his helmet and running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’m sure your presence as their commanding officer will put them straight.”

 

Arvas stayed silent, catching the general’s meaning with those last words. He nodded to no one. “Yes, sir.” he said, just as they arrived to the outskirts of the camp and to an assembled group of prisoners. Small piles of arms and armor were set aside, and the prisoners were forced to sit as they were bound together. They were around thirty now, the only survivors of the raid.

 

“Where’s your captain?” asked Captain Aurelius to the men that were guarding the prisoners. One of the men turned, and pointed to the south.

 

“Investigating some trouble near the horselines.” he said, “Happened some time ago, they should be returning.”

 

True to the man’s word, a trio of horsemen came moments later, and behind them trailed a bound man leashed to their captain. He was on foot, and struggling to keep up with the horses.

 

“Please, please!” he begged as he was brought forward to the men guarding the prisoners. “I’m not a rebel!”

 

“Does the general require something?” the leader of the trio asked with his guttural Nordic accent when his gaze found them. He let go of the leash as the men brought the straggler downwards and onto the rocky dirt.

 

“Yes, custody of the prisoners and some of your men.” Captain Aurelius said, and the other man cocked his head.

 

“We fight his battles and yet he won’t trust us?”

 

“I’m the one to blame. I need one of my own to look over the prisoners.” he explained, motioning towards Arvas.

 

The Nord captain grunted, then spoke directly at Arvas. “How many?”

 

Arvas looked at the prisoners for a moment, counting and judging them, before turning to the captain. “A dozen. No more.”

 

The Nord captain huffed, lightly shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll hand’em to you.” He seemed to not be keen on the idea.

 

“Do not worry. I’m sure after all this is over the general will give you and your men your due bonus on your wages.” Captain Aurelius said.

 

There, the other captain perked up, a smile with crooked teeth forming beneath his helmet. “A few more Septims won’t hurt I reckon.” he said with a chuckle. “The wagons will be here soon. I’ll give you your dozen.”

 

Arvas nodded to the captain before the man trotted away, but this entire event still did not settle well in him. He turned to his captain. “Shouldn’t we execute them all here, and now? Ulfric’s head is all we need.”

 

“General’s orders.” said Aurelius, “Perhaps he wants the people in Helgen to bear witness to the Stormcloak’s defeat.”

 

“Perhaps.” considered Arvas, unstrapping his helm and lifting it, letting the cold air wash his face. He sighed at the oddly familiar sensation, but forced himself to ask. “Who died by Ulfric’s hand?”

 

His captain sighed, shaking his head. “Maurice. Damned sword was enchanted. A single cut and his life was sucked out of him.”

 

“A Nord wielding an enchanted sword?” Arvas asked in disbelief, staring hard at Aurelius. “The last I heard of such a thing they called that Nord a spineless coward.”

 

“Spineless or no, one of ours is dead because of it. This enchantment though, it’s powerful, and I’ll rather not have his son have it until he’s declared his allegiance to Jarl Elisif.”

 

“I’m sure he will after we send his father’s head to Cyrodiil.” Arvas spoke with sarcasm, but his captain merely frowned at him.

 

“He must. A child cannot lead men into battle.”

 

“No, he cannot, but the traitor legions and their commander are still in Eastmarch. This war is still far from over.”

 

“No, but this will be a start in ending it.” Aurelius finished

 

Arvas grunted as his captain once again sunk his head back onto his helmet. It concealed almost everything, with only two slits for the eyes to see through and the nasal guard stopping above the mouth. The fixed cheek projections covered the sides, and the segmented tail covered the nape, while its crest held horse hair dyed a scarlet red. Arvas looked at his own helmet, a highly similar one with the exception of the crest, which was wrought into the shape of a dragon poised to strike. Their armor was designed to look pretty to the eye, and intimidating, with engravings and inlays of brass and silver covering the surface of the steel. The others in the Imperial Guard also carried the same ornaments, while the captain’s crest was made for him to stand out and command them.

 

“I’ll leave you to the prisoners then.” Captain Aurelius said, pulling on his reins to turn the horse around. “Morning’s come, and General Tullius will want to depart as soon as possible.”

 

“Do not worry then. I’ll make sure they’re chained well enough.”

 

“I do not doubt that.” he said, a smirk barely hidden by his helmet as he kicked and trotted the way they came. Arvas turned to the prisoners, and then the sky. The night was ending, as the sky turned purple and a streak of amber appeared in the east over the trees that ended the clearing. A new day, for a new Skyrim perhaps? This petty war will be over, and the Empire will once again wholly focus on their true enemy, but as of now, Arvas needed to make sure such a thing was possible.

 

Turning back to the prisoners, he dismounted and set to do his work.


End file.
